The Adventures of Grimmjow and Ulquiorra
by Reverberating Winds
Summary: Boredom happens. That's why two unlikely Espada decide to partner up against the tedium of everyday life-- reluctantly, of course. Together, the nihilistic one and the party animal can keep the doldrums at bay. Crackfic! Not yaoi; no pairings.
1. Chapter 1

**The Adventures of Grimmjow and Ulquiorra**

Let's see how this works. I'm curious to see how it will turn out. If it's too fail-o-rific, then I'll delete it. This was meant to get rid of writer's block.

Ulquiorra's POV. **Not yaoi. **

* * *

Boredom. The feelings of forlorn, angst, and apathy all rolled into one. Quite frankly, I am difficult to bore. But I've been struck by it at what might have been the worst time ever—summertime. Aizen and his horde are on an exquisite vacation in one of the many Hawaiian islands, leaving us behind with nothing to do. Some like that feeling of freedom. I don't. Six games of solitaire on the computer haven't dispersed by tedium. And nothing will.

I yawned as discreetly as I could and leaned back on my chair minimally. Convoluted thoughts floated around in my head and concentration was out of the question. The clock read twelve forty one, meaning I only had to be awake for a minimum of seven more hours. Then I would let slumber overcome me.

It was then I heard something—footsteps. And judging by how obnoxiously loud they were, the footsteps belonged to Grimmjow. And it sounded like he was coming to my room. Damn it all.

He popped his big head into my room and let a feral grin distort his face as he slunk into my room with something behind his back.

"'Sup, bitch?"

That was his form of greeting. Very disrespectful, and also trashy. Besides Grimmjow, do people really talk that way? In fact, I'm not even going to answer to that form of greeting. Manners have suffered the effects of passing time more than anything else.

"I said, what's up, bitch?" Grimmjow said loudly, coming closer. A frown was threatening to present itself on his face.

"Don't talk to me that way." I said coldly. If I leaned to my left, I could see something resembling a gun behind his back. It was extremely makeshift; I noticed some duct tape and maybe even a can of soda. Dear Lord.

"Yeah, whatever." Grimmjow said flippantly.

"What do you want?" I prompted. He had a grossly mischievous look on his face that made me hate him even more. At times I wish everyone would die. But then I remember there's no point in thinking that, because they will continue to reproduce, creating more people in the form of demonic infants…I digress.

Grimmjow snorted. "I'm friggin' bored."

I wasn't going to say anything. He'd twist my words and use them against me.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah." Grimmjow raised an eyebrow. "And for that reason…" I watched him move him arm from behind his back, and I tensed up immediately—Grimmjow was the type of person to assault others for no reason.

But he pulled out that makeshift gun from behind his back instead and held it out to me. And that thing was the most pathetic weapon I had ever seen. It make constructed mainly of duct tape, with a few soda cans, water bottles, and even a lighter at the bottom.

"What is that?" I asked with mild disgust. Instinctively, I leaned away from it. Associating myself with that thing would stigmatize me for life.

"What does it look like, retard?" Grimmjow stomped his foot and insisted of giving it to me. "It's supposed to be a flamethrower, but I turned it into a projectile weapon. It shoots stuff like coins, tampons, and sporks."

I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow slightly. It was ridiculous. But somewhat intriguing. It was designed sloppily, but it seemed to have an air of functionality to it.

"What purpose does it serve?" I asked with slight curiosity.

Grimmjow shrugged and placed his weight on his left leg nonchalantly. He looked me up and down and shrugged again.

"It's a boredom buster, basically." Grimmjow replied. "And you look fuckin' bored."

He had seen right through me—and I suddenly felt ill. I was bored. No matter how hard I tried to keep a straight face, I was. The tedium of everyday life had affected me.

"Therefore," Grimmjow continued with a dramatic gesture, "Uncle Sam—and I—want _you,_" Grimmjow took the moment to jab at me with his index finger, raising his eyebrows, "to spy on people with me. And then scare 'em shitless."

"Excuse me?" I said faintly. What preposterous inanity. But I was irritated by the fact the prospect of it amused me. Was my boredom so acute? I will not fall prey to childish tendencies. With much pretense, I eyed the gun with disdain. Grimmjow's eyes were glowing with obnoxious malevolence.

"Come on, Ulquiorra." Grimmjow taunted me. "I know you want to know what Szayel does in that hellhole lab of his. Let's go."

I cannot say that wasn't tantalizing. Szayel hadn't left that place in days. My boredom was so intense. I had no control—my mind said no but my mouth said yes.

"Yes, I will go with you."

And that was that. I found myself following an overenthusiastic Grimmjow with a replica of the strange contraption in my arms. Indeed, I was the exemplifier of stupidity. I wanted to cero Grimmjow into oblivion, along with his idiotic gun. Life would've been easier if memories and events could be erased, like a pencil, the shavings left to be blown away.

"Okay, so." Grimmjow turned to me. "You know how to work it, right? Just pull the trigger, like this." Grimmjow assumed an odd stance and pulled the trigger forcefully. With a loud _pop!_a crumpled spork flew out of the gun's barrel and onto the slate blue tile of Las Noches.

"Ridiculous," I said with a sigh. "Ridiculous."

"Shut up." Grimmjow said, jabbing the gun's barrel into my head. "I'mma shoot if you keep hating. Besides, I'm doing your punk ass a favor."

With irritation, I lowered his gun from my head. Disrespectful. Grimmjow's manners betrayed his dignity long ago. But his dignity might as well commit suicide after this idea. We now stood in front of the imposing white doors that led to the foyer of Szayel's lab. On the left door, there was a plaque that read _Entre y Muera_, which means 'Enter and Die'. How…welcoming. Szayel was serious about that. Grimmjow ignored it-- typical. He flung the door open and peered inside, beckoning me over. With a snide roll of my eyes, I followed after him. Why had I bothered? Why couldn't I have gone with my original intentions of avoiding this?

"Shit, there he is!" Grimmjow hissed. He grabbed me by the horn of my mask—much to my irritation—and dragged me behind a bookshelf. Grimmjow peered through the gaps in the books at Szayel, who was working intently at a granite topped table on the other side of the bookshelf. He was in a lab coat that resembled an artist's palette with its stains of assorted colors. He appeared to be dealing with a highly dangerous chemical. Thick black gloves ran up to his elbows. Protective goggles were over his glasses and a surgical mask covered the latter half of his face. He appeared to be in a perfect state of concentration—only to be ruined by Grimmjow. I had noticed that Grimmjow had a most annoying proclivity of shattering people's nerves. Grimmjow smirked at me as his finger tightened around the trigger.

Glass shattered and Szayel jumped back, muttering curse words under his breath. Grimmjow heaving with stifled giggles, entertained. And I was not going to lie. This pathetic adventure was quite a cheap thrill. I found myself pointing the barrel at the Bunsen burner on the table.

"Damn it." Szayel said through gritted teeth. He salvaged the paper he had spread on the table meticulously, setting it on another table nearby.

Tentatively, I pulled the trigger. A small, cylindrical object missed the Bunsen burner but hit Szayel's arm instead. He gave a yelp—Grimmjow let out a pleased snort at Szayel's reaction— and looked around, angered. He then spotted the offending 'bullet' and bent over to pick it up. He turned the tampon in his fingers, eyes wide. He was horrified—or mortified.

"A tampon?" he muttered, perplexed. "Where did it come from?"

It was then Grimmjow took action. He fiddled with the gun and proceeded to shoot more random objects at an astonishing rate, almost like a machine gun. Glass shattered, flasks tipped over, instruments fell to the floor with loud clatters all while Szayel stood around, watching in absolute horror as his lab was torn apart by an unseen perpetrator.

It was then I decided to add to the chaos by shooting Szayel. A coin hit him square in the chest. Szayel winced as he massaged the site.

"Screw this." He scampered out of the room, and as soon as he was out of earshot, Grimmjow collapsed into a fit of maniacal laughter. He doubled over and gasped for breath.

"Be quiet." I told him. "It's not funny at all." That was a lie. I hadn't felt so full of life since the day before Aizen left. I had a mission that day. Sadly, it was two weeks ago. This was quite a pleasurable activity. A certain fondness for torment that I refused to foster was threatening to lodge itself inside me. But then, Szayel returned, and in his arms was a masterpiece of science. Grimmjow's laughter stuck in his throat when he saw it.

It gleamed in silver glory under the lights of laboratory. A canister of glowing green fluid was attached to it, and on the end was a hollow structure that was like a small scale version of a satellite dish. And the tip was glowing as a green orb of an unidentified substance formed.

"Shit." Grimmjow whispered dully.

"Fine," Szayel murmured. "If I can't find you motherfuckers, my homing lasers will."

And with that, he fired his own weapon. A few seconds later, I felt a sharp pain in my side, where, upon closer inspection, a blood stain was forming. Grimmjow dealt with Szayel duly, however. Grimmjow fired at the lights, blowing up the lightbulbs and plunging us all into darkness. I felt a jerk on my jacket, the whoosh of a fast sonido, and when I blinked I found myself in Las Noches' cramped, filthy kitchen.

"That was awesome!" Grimmjow said with a laugh. "Fucking A."

I said nothing, as there wasn't anything to say. I was in pain from the laser, but the bleeding had stopped.

"That was entertaining." I said dryly. It had been a pleasant break from everyday dullness. A break in the routine, that is. An hour of my time had been used—not wasted. There was sense of motivation in me now. Perhaps I could find other things to do now.

"Ulquiorra, you and I are going to have to do this more often." Grimmjow said with a smirk. "Because until Aizen gets back, Las Noches is ours."

Grimmjow was correct. Las Noches was ours now. I wanted missions—things to occupy my mind and time. A menial task was enough to keep me entertained. But, due to the circumstances, it will be my responsibility to create my own fun. I extended my hand to Grimmjow. Grimmjow glared at me.

"Am I supposed to high five that?"

"No." I said hesitantly. He was supposed to shake it. Obviously. I don't do high fives.

But then, a sparkle of understanding came to Grimmjow's blue eyes. He shook my hand firmly.

"It's a done deal." He said with a grin.

And that was that. I hate Grimmjow passionately; he's an imbecile. That is exactly why he will make a good puppet and entertainer for me. Las Noches will never be the same.

* * *

Short, especially for me. Anyway...tell me what you think. Continue or ditch? I won't be offended.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Crackkkkk. I personally hate this story, but oh well. Since people like it, I guess I'll continue-- I'm LOADED with ideas anyway.

* * *

It was with great disdain that I even bothered to open my eyes the next morning. Living in the fortress of Las Noches had taught me valuable life lessons, one of which was don't look forward to anything. There were no exceptions to that maxim. Ever. Of course, some of the more optimistic or blatantly stupid Espada still had hopes and dreams. As an I example I will use Nnoitra. Nnoitra dreams of becoming the next Hugh Hefner for reasons that I do not wish to disclose. But his dreams will never come true. Why? Because we live in Hueco Mundo, where happiness does not happen to unless you are Gin, for Gin creates fun thus creating happiness but only for himself. However, he holds the title as the most annoying fox-faced fucker to ever defile the earth. The nickname is courtesy of Grimmjow, as nobody else would come up with something so ludicrous, yet so accurate.

With a rather lazy move, I kicked the thick white covers off of me and slung my legs over of the side of the bed. I was lost in thoughts ranging from hunger to angst an even the frivolous thought of finding something interesting to do today. Seeing I had nothing left to do in my room, I headed to the kitchen.

The kitchen is, frankly, the hellhole of Las Noches. It is where the Espada and their fraccion choose to pass the time. Along with that, the kitchen is the only thing in Las Noches that is not a clean shade of white. No, the kitchen's color scheme is as warm and earthy as possible, with passionate reds, appetizing oranges, and sophisticated shades of brown. Such colors should not be allowed—they desecrate the sterile majesty of Las Noches. Because most of the Espada waste their useless days in the kitchen, it is the filthiest place in Las Noches. Each stain on the counter, each pot in the sink has a story to tell. And that story likely bears an unpleasant ending.

"So, then I bitch slapped her and drowned her with a donut—"

Nnoitra was telling a meager audience of Grimmjow, Stark, and Halibel of a grotesque and evidently explicit dream he had the night before. I chose not to bother listening, for it would be a waste of my time and would further mar my sanity.

I scanned the fridge and was unsatisfied by its disorder—Grimmjow had evidently been looking for something. It was far too early for me to busy myself with organization. I settled with a glass bottle of Starbucks™ Frapuccino. As I turned the lid, it slid open easily. Far too easily. Someone had drunk from it. However, it appeared to be full. Another lesson in Las Noches—if it looks untouched, it may or may not be untouched.

I debated pinching my nose as I took a sip. Thick, cold coffee slid into my stomach, sugar and milk leaving behind an aftertaste and a crawling feeling in my stomach. Unsuccessfully, I repressed a shudder.

"Hey, Ulquiorra." Grimmjow took an obscenely large bite out of his bagel, slathered with sickening amounts of cream cheese, and beckoned me over. Coolly distant, I remained at my post behind the kitchen island, unwilling to associate with the others.

"Oh, dear." Nnoitra tut tutted. "Looks like Ulquiorra is being a recluse—what a surprise."

"Be quiet." I told him, reluctantly walking over to the table.

Grimmjow downed his bagel and chased it down with Dr. Pepper, gazing at me in a very stern, formal way. It was so unlike Grimmjow that I was taken aback slightly.

"I was telling these shitheads," he gestured to Nnoitra, Stark, and Halibel, all of which remained relatively indifferent to his derogatory term. "About the fun we had messing with Szayel yesterday."

I had forgotten about that. The repercussions would be dire—Szayel would likely seek revenge. I looked at Grimmjow coldly, indicating him to continue.

"And they think they should join in on the fun sometimes, too."

"And you three don't have anything to do?" I asked, raising an eyebrow slightly. Halibel and Stark shrugged, and exchanged glances, while Nnoitra popped his head out from behind a disgusting porn magazine.

"Nah, I have plenty to do." He smirked at his innuendo. "But, variety spices life up."

Nnoitra was correct, though I did not wish to admit it. That was the reason I chose to go ruin Szayel's life with Grimmjow yesterday. It was more of a subconscious decision—the agreement was out of my mouth before I could rationalize the situation.

"Damn straight." Grimmjow harrumphed. "We need some plans for today." From his jacket, he produced a sheet of notebook paper, and a pen that needed to be put out of its misery—Grimmjow had gnawed it to the point where it was twisted at odd angles and missing pieces. Grimmjow promptly stuck it in his mouth and began to nibble.

"For today, we need to do some intense shit," he said. I was mesmerized by the pen, bobbing rhythmically as he spoke. "Not like the crap we did yesterday, but some stuff that'll really make Aizen piss himself when he gets back. You bitches got any suggestions?" He plucked the pen out of his mouth and tossed it on the paper and pointed to it. At once, Halibel gingerly snatched the pen first, and began to write something on the paper in her neat, curly handwriting. She handed it to Stark, who paused, looked at the ceiling, shrugged and wrote something down halfheartedly. The paper was passed to Nnoitra, whose eyes twinkled with malice as he wrote down his suggestions. And last, the paper was entrusted to me.

I am no good at thinking of entertaining activities—that is their job. I gave the paper to Grimmjow, who perused it.

"Manicures and pedicures?" Grimmjow asked incredulously, glowering at Halibel. "Maybe with illegal chemicals…hm, let's see. Graffiti and vandalism—nice one, Stark. And…what the fuck, Nnoitra? An orgy? You sick bastard. No." Grimmjow shrugged. "I like the vandalism idea. Care to elaborate, Stark?"

Stark heaved a sigh and shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Halibel for a moment.

"Well…" he said slowly, weighing his words. "Like I said, graffiti. We can blow pillars up, put sharks in the pool, poison the water supply that leads to Szayel's lab, lock Szayel in his lab, switch the meat in the fridge with rotten stuff, uhhh…" Grimmjow was positively starry eyed with Stark's suggestions. He nodded fervently, a sure signal for Stark to continue. Stark, mildly perturbed, continued. "And setting things on fire."

"You are a fuckin' genius." Grimmjow gave a loud hoot of laughter and did an unrestrained jig on the spot. "Greatness! Nnoitra and I have all the supplies, 'cept for the sharks. But I'm sure Halibel can provide that."

Halibel gave a rare chuckle, but did not smile.

"In case you haven't noticed, sharks live in the ocean."

"Right." Grimmjow said blankly.

"And we don't have an ocean."

"Are you telling me that you can't open up a garganta and holla at them sharks in the ocean real fast?" Grimmjow demanded, eyebrows furrowing.

"Are you retarded?" Halibel asked pointedly, rising from her seat. "Why go through all that trouble when Szayel has sharks in his lab? It's simple as nipping one or two from the tank and throwing them in the pool."

"Oh." Grimmjow smiled sheepishly. "Okay. Perfect. Nnoitra!"

"Yes?" he inquired lazily, not even looking up from his magazine.

"Get the spray paint, bombs, chains, duct tape, and trash bags." Grimmjow commanded. He took on a sudden air of authority—Nnoitra actually got up and stalked off to go get the supplies.

"Stark and Ulquiorra, get your asses to the pool. Halibel, get the sharks. I'll be at the pool."

It was settled. I lagged behind Grimmjow and Stark as we took the many hallways to the entrance of the pool. Frankly, I did not know whether I would enjoy this or not. As an Espada, it was my duty to uphold the rules and pay my respects to Lord Aizen. I should not be partaking in such trivial, childish activities. Lord Aizen did not leave us with anything amusing in Las Noches; therefore, we must create our own fun. I still frown upon this—I did not authorize it, but now it was too late. We arrived at the entrance some five minutes later. The double doors were large and imposing, much like the ones to Szayel's lab. But because Szayel was not in there, they were not able to unnerve anyone. We eased them open, and took a breath of the cool, humid air. Inside the room, with vaulted ceilings and dark green tile, there was an Olympic sized pool, complete with a high dive and twenty feet deep at one end. The water was still and dark due to the green tiles its inside was composed of. I hated this room. It was not as majestic as the rest of Las Noches.

"I've never been in here." Stark remarked, looking around. Las Noches was one of those glorious places in which getting lost was a painfully easy thing to do. It was also a place where crevices were unexplored, untouched by man due to its sprawling proportions.

"Eh, the pool is nice." Grimmjow hid a smirk behind his hand. "Very nice."

I crept a little closer to the edge, looking down at the floor. The water appeared to be clean. But then, I felt a sharp push on my back and the air rush out of me, and before I could grasp Stark for support, I plunged into the pool, mind racing. Grimmjow had pushed me in. I swam back up to the surface and brushed wet hair out of my face, giving Grimmjow the ugliest look that could defile my pristine features. It satisfied me immensely when his laughter abruptly stopped and he blanched.

"H-Hey, I couldn't resist." Grimmjow said tremulously. He grinned maliciously suddenly. "But how's the water, Ulquiorra?"

"Fine—that is, fine until I add your blood to it." I retorted scathingly.

"The sharks can deal with that." Stark said flatly. "Let's avoid unnecessary bloodshed—oh, look. Halibel is here."

Halibel had a large shark slung over her shoulder and dragged two more behind her, thrashing about like fish out of water—as they were. But these sharks did not appear to be normal. They were much too large to be normal sharks. Halibel threw them into the pool with a great heave. The splash doused us all with cold water. Because I was wet, it made no difference to me. Halibel strode over to us, brushing shark saliva off her uniform unconcernedly.

"Those are babies." She told us.

"Babies?" Stark demanded, glancing at the monsters swirling about in the pool.

"That's all Szayel had." Halibel said with a shrug.

Grimmjow frowned and went to the pools edge. He squatted and watched the sharks circling below keenly. He threw a furtive glance at Halibel but said nothing. Then I had an epiphany. Grimmjow had left himself completely open to an attack. I placed my foot in the middle of his back and gave a firm shove. Grimmjow gave a loud yelp and fell face first into the pool with much flailing and cursing.

Yes, my actions were childish and impulsive. But my conscience was relishing every moment of it. I tried—but failed—to repress the stiff, cold smile that was threatening to spread on my lips. I watched with utmost satisfaction as Grimmjow pulled himself out of the pool, coughing. Grimmjow gave a great shudder and stood up, shivering slightly. He lowered at me with such intensity that I snickered—it was nowhere near intimidating.

"God, you people are dysfunctional." Stark muttered. He cast a sidelong glance to Nnoitra, who was shaking up spray paint and handing the cans to Halibel and Stark. He threw one at Grimmjow and one at me.

Nnoitra pointed to the wall behind him.

"That's a bad place to spray paint, because Aizen never comes in here." He said as if it was obvious. "So, we're going straight to the foyer. We'll come back later to feed the sharks."

We left the pool in a procession of sorts—Nnoitra led us while Grimmjow brought up the rear, shivering and cursing. It was an awkward procession—Nnoitra had the 'supplies' in a large trash bag slung over his shoulder and Halibel had shark spit and blood on her uniform. We finally arrived in the formidable foyer of Las Noches. I took a moment to marvel at its immaculate state. The ice blue tile shone gloriously under the soft light, reflecting it back and illuminating the large room all the way up to the vaulted ceilings. The temperature was at a stable seventy. I was aghast at Nnoitra, who had already started to graffiti the perfect white walls in a tacky, red paint.

Grimmjow was crudely spray painting "FUK U" all over the wall in black. Stark was defiling the place by creating a rather amusing illustration, switching colors every so often to make it pop. Halibel was graffiting the floor, which made my hair stand on end. As one of Aizen's Espada, it was my duty to maintain Las Noches while he was gone. Alas, I was rooted to the spot with horror—Las Noches was being desecrated right before my eyes, and I could not stop it.

Nnoitra was drawing something phallic—by now, everyone was so used to his perversion that nobody even batted an eye. I, on the other hand, cringed with such deep disgust that the frapuccino I had for breakfast began to roil in my stomach.

And then, Grimmjow stopped spray painting cuss words and studied me, eyes narrowing. He pointed a stained finger at me and said, "You. You faggot, you haven't drawn anything yet. I command you to draw."

"No."

Grimmjow stomped his foot like a ten year old.

"Yes! I command you to! Press the friggin' trigger thingy and write some shit on the walls!" Grimmjow shouted, flailing his arms around. I could see a vague outline of a vein pulsing in his temple.

"Las Noches is not to be colored in like a children's coloring book," I said stiffly.

Grimmjow stomped over to me and grabbed my arm. He forced my finger on the 'trigger' and nearly broke it in the process. He pressed down, and a jet of gaudy green paint erupted from it. It hit Stark squarely in the back. He jumped and whirled around.

"Well, well, well." He smirked. "If you want to do it that way, then be my guest."

Grimmjow's impish giggle was the last thing I heard before a jet of yellow hit me in the chest, staining my pristine white uniform neon.

My reaction was delayed. The offense was so inflammatory that my primal instincts came over me—in a childish move that was uncalled for, I sprayed Stark right back with my green. He looked down at his hakama, now green.

Stark gave a short laugh and rounded on Grimmjow, shooting yellow paint into his hair. Nnoitra suddenly decided to join in, dousing everyone with purple. Between dodging jets of color and wiping paint off my face, I did not realize the thrill this unwholesome activity was bringing upon me. Shielding my eyes from colors and slipping in the puddles, I hadn't noticed that I was thoroughly amused by the ordeal.

"Aw, shit! The po-po's coming!" Grimmjow yelled in the middle of the battle. He kicked Nnoitra's shin to stop him from shooting colors down Halibel's cleavage. And in the shocked silence, there were footsteps. These footsteps were slightly frenetic, fast—Szayel's. But there was no time to cover up the damage—or should I say, damnage. Each of us looked like a smeared artist's pallet and wall behind us was riddled with multicolored obscenities. Szayel saw our 'masterpiece' upon turning the corner into the foyer. He promptly dropped a heavy manila folder that spilled papers everywhere and he became rigid, forming a perfect little 'o' with his mouth. He looked at the wall, and then at us. I found myself biting my lip to keep from smirking. The look on Szayel's face was entertaining enough to snap a picture of.

"What the hell happened here?" Szayel demanded, voice low. His eyes were lit up with anger. "_And why the hell wasn't I invited_?"

Without delay, Grimmjow burst into fits of loud, uncontrollable laughter, doubling over, smacking his knee, and making a fool of himself. Grimmjow had proven to be quite adept at doing that. Szayel glowered at him.

"It's not funny!" he shrieked.

"Actually," Nnoitra said over Grimmjow's hoots and giggles, "It is."

"You look like you want an explanation, Szayel." Stark said wearily. He heaved a sigh and managed to Szayel in the eye without even letting a snicker escape from him. "We were bored."

"_Bored_?" Szayel spat, scanning the wall in a calculating manner. He squinted at Nnoitra's disgusting drawing and then rolled his eyes at Grimmjow's cookie cutter cuss words. "I might have to tell Aizen about this. By the way, Halibel, why did you need my sharks?"

"To put in the pool." She replied flatly.

"Uh, yeah, if you tell Aizen, we will cut you up." Grimmjow said pointedly. He indicated Nnoitra with his thumb. "And we like cutting stuff up."

"Correct." Nnoitra agreed.

Szayel ignored him. He was accustomed to Grimmjow's inane threats. Instead, he turned to me. His eyes seemed to X-ray me before he spoke.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Ulquiorra." Szayel said, shaking his head. "Your loyalty to Aizen was all an act, it seems." Szayel's words struck a nerve within me. Szayel spoke the truth. I had been blinded by unwavering loyalty. I did not realized that Aizen has not given us a mission in months. Nor has he made any attempts to improve our quality of life. Aizen has been spending more time on expensive, extravagant vacation than he has in Las Noches. I would assume, as the leader of Hueco Mundo, that he has responsibilities of his own as we have ours. But those responsibilities lay forgotten over stacks of brochures to exquisite islands and cities—neglecting us, his most faithful, loyal fighters. We were fading away with time in Hueco Mundo. But Szayel was correct, painfully correct.

"You are correct, Szayel." I said with a slight nod in his direction.

"Uh…wait, what? Did you just fucking say what I thought you said?" Grimmjow stomped over to me and slapped me across the face. "Who are you and what have you done to Ulquiorra?"

Before I could cero him to kingdom come, Halibel jumped between us, arms spread wide.

"There is a logical explanation for this," she said calmly. "Right, Szayel?"

"Of course there is," I muttered scathingly. "We sit around for a man who spends more time on vacations than in his own fortress. It's unreciprocated and absurd that we are left with no duties."

A mutinous murmur filled the foyer. Szayel nodded cautiously in agreement and Stark's brow was furrowed in deep, contemplative thought. Nnoitra looked giddy. Grimmjow was smiling corruptly.

"Wow, took you long enough to notice that he's a dick," Grimmjow said, amused. "I was starting to think you were dumber than Yami."

"In that case…I won't say anything." Szayel said solemnly. "Because we're all on the same page regarding Aizen."

"We should celebrate!" Nnoitra piped up, tossing his spray paint on the floor. "Let's hit up my room for some champ' and other shit!"

"WAIT A MINUTE, you hooligans!" Szayel screamed, pointing at us critically. "We have some unfinished business!" Szayel snatched the orange spray paint can from Grimmjow and headed over the wall. He paused for a moment, and then sprayed a neat, curly message: Dear Aizen, I, Szayel Aporro Grantz, on behalf of the ten Espada, declare Las Noches our possession, territory, and citadel. Love, Szayel. PS—you look like you belong in an SF gay parade."

And he tossed the spray paint can aside, beaming at us.

"There we go!" Szayel said cheerfully.

"I love you so much right now, Szayel—no homo." Grimmjow said, starry eyed once again. He read the message over and over again. I remained a little bit numb and dumbstruck by my epiphany regarding Aizen. I felt empowered—nobody could stop me now. It was a wonderful feeling to be free from unnecessary, imaginary oppressions. Szayel's message was well written, but it was the PS that particularly entertained me.

"Las Noches is an ugly name," Halibel remarked with a grimace on the way to Nnoitra's room. "Let's change it—"

"Porn palace!"

"Hollow Hellhole."

"Ass Noches!"

"The Szayel Aporro Grantz Institute of Scientific Research!"

I chose not to even bother suggesting a name. Las Noches is a fitting name. For in Hueco Mundo, it is always night.

Halibel scowled at them incredulously and said, "No. I'm renaming it."

"Why?" Grimmjow demanded.

"Because," Halibel flipped hair off her shoulder and walked ahead. "I'm the only female here. Therefore, we're naming it The Sandbox." She said it with firm finality that put an end to all argument before they began. Grimmjow grimaced conspicuously and the others looked crestfallen. Though the name was ludicrous, it was fair for Halibel to name it, as she was the only woman in the Espada.

Nnoitra's room might've been the single most revolting room in Las N—The Sandbox. The floor was sticky; a thick, sour stench was in the air. Dirty clothing lay in sparse piles around his room, similar to haystacks in a field. His bed was unkempt, cheetah print sheets in a wad. A red leather couch had stacks of magazine on it. Sodas cans and beer bottles were strewn about the room. His laptop was blaring a particularly annoying rap song and a mini fridge was perched precariously on his bedside table.

"Welcome to my lair," Nnoitra said seductively. Upon sitting down on his bed, it rippled—a water bed. How distasteful.

Nnoitra popped the fridge open and dispersed cans of beer to each of us. He patted his bed and waved us over. I shared with the same feelings with the others—we reluctantly sat on his bed.

"We need some entertainment." Nnoitra muttered. He groped under his sheets for a remote and pressed a few buttons on it. At once, a large plasma TV was turned on, blaring MTV. His stereo turned on as well, deafening us with more rap.

"I think we should give a name to ourselves," Stark said with a shrug. "I mean, we are the people that are having fun, not to mention the leaders of Las Noches."

Everyone nodded and smiled in agreement. I had to agree as well. The feeling of power was gratifying—were unsurpassed by anyone, especially Stark, as the primera. By hierarchy, the Fortress rested in his hands.

"The Committee of Crackheads," Grimmjow said quickly. "'Cause we're blowing shit up and doing fun crap."

"And I name Grimmjow and Ulquiorra as the president and vice president." Halibel said with a sure nod. "They were the pioneers in the world of entertainment."

It seems Grimmjow had told them the embarrassing series of events from yesterday.

"Oh, well," Grimmjow flushed slightly. He waved a hand, evidently feigning modesty. "I wouldn't say that, but yeah, I'm pretty much fucking amazing."

I had a feeling the modesty wouldn't last.

"I appreciate the nomination—" I said tactfully. I don't feel that I should have that title. Innovation, creativity is not my strong point, nor do I relish it. Logic and analysis is appealing. In addition, causing trouble is childish and unnecessary.

"Shut up and accept it, Ulquiorra" Grimmjow snapped, throwing me an ominous look. "We're in charge of screwing around now."

Meanwhile, Nnoitra popped open a bottle of champagne, pouring us each glasses. The champagne sparkled in the light.

"To the Committee of Crackheads!" Grimmjow thundered, raising his glass.

"To the Committee of Crackheads," we echoed. Glasses chinked as we culminated our taste, ending with long drinks.

Perhaps this would end well. A tidal wave of change was coming. Las Noches would not be Las Noches, in name and in function and majesty. We were the usurpers, and by the rule of dominance, and we will revolutionize the past, present, and future of The Sandbox.

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I'm starting to like this story. Please review.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Poor Clark

Haha, I fail. I haven't updated in ages. Kinda forgot about this story.

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In Las Noches, where the only source of food we have comes from the kitchen, meals can become repetitive and monotonous until the food supply is replenished or the menu is changed. Generally speaking, I have been living off of water and cheap fruit snacks for a week. I feel I will vomit if I eat one more bag of those. Yes, we Espada can take initiative and visit those supermarkets in the real world and whatnot. But it is a combination of reluctance and laziness to do so, despite the simplicity of the process to get there. Supermarkets and large and confusing, riddled with aisles and shelves stacked high, foods neatly lined up in rows and produce shimmering with water, ripe and fat with flavor. Carts had to be pushed around to hold the bounties, and hundred dollar bills had to be bestowed upon a lowly cashier. If the food were delivered to us it would become much easier and better for our sanity. We Espada can handle dangerous missions but not the trivial task of food shopping. How pitifully ironic.

It had been four days since our cataclysmic celebration and birth of the Committee of Crackheads. I still do not remember that night very well. Patches of null mar the otherwise clear memory. Nnoitra and Grimmjow did an elaborate tango. Stark and Halibel tried to dance like the people that were on that ridiculous MTV channel. Szayel joined the tango at one point. He was then challenged to a drinking contest by Nnoitra. Szayel won—somehow—but passed out shortly after. He could not bask in the 'glory' he had earned. Because I choose to be responsible, I found a magazine that was not pornographic and demurely sat on the couch and read it. The rest of the night is fuzzy. But in truth, I do not believe anyone remembers it well.

For the moment, I was forcing fruit snacks down my throat for lunch. We were having an urgent committee meeting—Grimmjow had texted us five minutes ago telling us to 'haul ass 2 da ktchn'. And that was the reason I sat at the unbalanced, filthy table with everyone else, namely, Stark, Tia, and Nnoitra.

"Hey, bitches." The Committee of Crackheads meeting had commenced. Grimmjow whacked his coke can with a spoon repetitively, snatching and holding everyone's attention. Should the spoon have been a fork and the can a wineglass it would've been classy. "We don't have anything good to eat."

"I nominate Ulquiorra to go to the supermarket." Szayel said flatly. He was enjoying Cheez-Its for lunch, as there was nothing much more to eat. Szayel, like the rest of us, was beginning to look slightly malnutritioned, with those sunken eyes and wan pallor. It seemed that even Grimmjow, who lived off of trash, was finally tired of the everlasting monotony of ingredients and processed food for meals. He was eating Cool Whip at the moment. Queasiness roiled within me as he licked it heartily off his spoon.

"Fuck supermarkets." Grimmjow snorted, pointing at Szayel with his spoon. "Supermarkets are for losers. Let's order a pizza."

Of all the ridiculous things Grimmjow comes up with, this one might have been, by far, the most childish and impossibly ludicrous thing to do.

"I would like to point out that Las Noches is in an unknown dimension and therefore unreachable to humans." I put in. Hueco Mundo must be accessed by garganta, and only its inhabitants, its natives can open one.

"Yeah, so?" Grimmjow prompted, raising an eyebrow. "It doesn't mean we can't order one." He whipped out his cell phone and began to chew on the corner of it nonchalantly, thinking much harder than his brain could. "What's the address in this hellhole, anyway?"

"Oh, it's 1001 Null Dr. Hueco Mundo, Hueco Mundo 00000." Szayel said, smirking widely. His orange eyes glittered with delight.

"Huh. I thought it was 6969 Let's Kiss Aizen's Ass Ln," Grimmjow shrugged and flipped his phone open. "Let's see, I have Papa John's saved in here somewhere."

"Can we order, like, seven pizzas?" Stark inquired, looking uncomfortable. "That way we'll be able to live off of real food for longer."

"I hope you all are aware that the pizza will not solve our lack of food problem but simply delay it for three days. At some point, we will have to go to the supermarket." Halibel and I seem to be the most reasonable people in Las Noc—The Sandbox.

"I still nominate Ulquiorra to do that, by the way." Szayel said, glancing at me.

"Hi, is this Papa Johns? By the way, what the fuck kind of name is that?" Grimmjow said into his phone. He smirked and put the call on speaker, waiting for the clerk's reaction.

"Would you like to place an order?" the clerk asked congenially.

"The hell? You ignored my question!" Grimmjow shouted, slamming the table with his fist. "I asked what kind of fucking name is that?"

"Would you to place an order?" he asked again.

"Shit, son. You must've been dropped on your head when you were a baby. Right, yeah. Sixteen pizzas. Four extra cheese, six meat-lovers, one veggie for that fag Ulquiorra, and five pepperoni. Make 'em extra large, bitch."

"Okay. Would you like any sodas?"

"Four Dr. Peppers, three Coca-Colas. Also, bring twenty cinnamon rolls." Grimmjow replied, slurping cool whip off his spoon. A wide, mischievous grin was spreading on his face. Indeed, he was not concerned with the price. I had a feeling we would be victim to his gluttony—financially, that is.

"Delivery or take out?"

"Delivery. The address is 1001 Null Dr. Hueco Mundo, Hueco Mundo 00000. Be here or cower in fear."

Szayel smacked his forehead with his palm and Grimmjow's idiotic rhyme, groaning slightly. Grimmjow frowned at him.

"Thank you, sir. Your total is 263.67. Your pizzas will be ready in about two hours."

"Oh, one more thing…" Grimmjow snorted. "Call back if you get lost. Chances are you will." And with that, he snapped his phone shut. Grimmjow was, in fact, glowing with satisfaction. He held his hand out and said, "Pay up, shitheads."

"That's your job!" Szayel said sharply, pointing at him. "You ordered the obscene numbers of pizzas, not us."

"So?" Grimmjow snorted.

"I'm not paying." Stark said resignedly.

"Me either." Tia agreed.

"Hell no." Nnoitra sniggered. "I already pay for cable, internet, cell phones, and magazines."

"I refuse." I put in coolly. Grimmjow frowned at us and made a disgusted noise in his throat. He searched his pockets (abysses) and pulled out wads of cash, dumping them on the table. He then started to count very, very slowly, as if he was weighing the crumpled bills. With a straight face, he finally looked up at us.

"I have the money. But Szayel, I'd like you to give the pizza man the directions when he gets lost." Grimmjow tossed his phone to Szayel, who looked like he won a lottery. He caught the phone and pocketed it, smiling with such malice, such vindictiveness that I truly wondered why Aizen hadn't put him in an insane asylum. But Aizen was out of our lives, now. We were one hundred percent free, and feeling was liberating.

"Of course…" he purred, leaning back in his chair.

"This kitchen is a hellhole." Tia said flatly, looking around. She was right. Filth seemed to be the main decoration there. The table was grimy, as well as the countertops. The fridge had moldy ingredients inside, and there was a strange smell wafting from the trashcan.

"Then clean it." Grimmjow said.

"Half of this mess if yours," Szayel said coolly. He was presumably going through Grimmjow's text messages, as that is what everyone does when they obtain a phone that is not theirs.

"Shut up." Grimmjow returned. "You people live here too."

Tia sighed, rose from her chair, and bustled over to the cabinets, from which she pulled out cleaning chemicals and a roll of paper towels. The kitchen was filthy. It appeared to be bathed in dirt, grime, and grease. Nauseating, it was. With much arguing, Grimmjow was dragged out of his seat by an irate Halibel, who put him to work immediately. Grimmjow was kneeling on the floor, scrubbing the tiles with a sponge. He cursed every so often, but other than that, the kitchen was relatively quiet. The only sound was the sound of Nnoitra flipping through old magazines. Szayel was still going through Grimmjow's text messages. And then, the silence was split by the obnoxious ringtone of Grimmjow's phone—'Good Girls Go Bad'.

Szayel flipped it open and answered, "Hellooooo?" in a very seductive purr. He then proceeded to set it on speaker.

"Hey, this is Clark. Your pizza guy?"

"Oh, of course!"

A pause on the other line. Szayel's reply carried the same cadence as a moan of pleasure. Szayel had unnerved him almost immediately. Impressive.

"The address isn't coming up on GPS. What is it again?"

"1001 Null Dr. Hueco Mundo, Hueco Mundo 00000." Szayel replied.

"I'm pretty sure that doesn't exist…" Clark said dubiously.

"It does…I promise. Pinky promise." Szayel giggled girlishly. Szayel suddenly rose from the table and grabbed my wrist, dragging me out of the kitchen. As he gave the deliveryman directions in a variation of accents, tones, and languages, Szayel was making his way to the main entrance of Las Noches. We stepped outside into the night, sinking in the smooth sand. Szayel opened up a garganta.

"Take a left, and you'll be here shortly." Szayel said, sniggering.

A beat up car popped out of the garganta. The deliveryman was staring at us and Las Noches with a look of terror, confusion, and reluctance on his acne-ridden face. Szayel waltzed over to the door, opened it, and took all sixteen pizzas.

"If I were you," Szayel purred, smiling coldly. "I'd lay off on the LSD. You'll start to think you're having conversations with aliens!" He threw the bags of soda and cinnamon rolls to me. "Now, go right back into that tunnel, and don't come back."

"Szayel, you did not pay him." I pointed out.

"So? He thinks he's tripping balls right now." Szayel scoffed. "He honestly won't remember anything."

Pizza tastes like fat, heart disease, and bilious amounts of calories. Therefore, I do not find it worth eating. I would rather eat another meager bag of fruit snacks. I would vomit if I ate either one, however. Grimmjow was on his tenth slice, Nnoitra was shoving two whole slices into his mouth, and Szayel had devoured most of the cinnamon rolls. What gluttons they are.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Grimmjow asked me, grease shining on his lips.

"I do not eat trash."

"We got you the veggie pizza." Grimmjow said, pointing an unopened pizza box.

"Trash." My verdict does not waver. "I am going to the supermarket."

"I'll come with you."

Halibel would be an excellent companion. As a sane woman, she would know what to buy and in what quantity. Halibel was the one that had stocked the kitchen with cleaning products, as well as elegant plates and utensils that were used only on special occasions.

"Let's go." She said, touching my arm. We split the roiling dimensions with a garganta and stepped in, only to step onto the white linoleum tile of a supermarket. I was hit with the scent of produce.

"Fruits, vegetables, bread, dairy." She turned to me. "Anything else?"

I shook my head.

Halibel grabbed a shopping cart and navigated the store masterfully. I chose to be her steed. These flamboyant labels and misspellings on products were giving me a headache, which brings me to my next point. There are some questionable characters on these cereal boxes. And on a bag of chips sitting innocuously in Halibel's cart features a cheetah that reminds me of Grimmjow, in the most unpleasant sense. I have a feeling we are in America right now. The people are dressed in…sweatpants? Yes, those. Flips flops make that horrid slapping noise against the floor and there is an abundance of beer bellies and wifebeater shirts. Despite the fact two Arrancar are walking around in our white uniforms, masks fairly obvious on our heads, the public completely ignores us, save for a few males that ogled Halibel for obvious reasons. Halibel was a relatively efficient shopper. The three shopping carts we hauled together were filled to the brim within an hour, overflowing with the food that would sustain us. But we would have to make another run to the supermarket too soon, with Grimmjow's erratic eating habits. The price for all these goods brought me physical discomfort, but Halibel handed the money over without so much as a bat of an eyelash. Once in the safety of Las Noches, she spoke.

"I'm not putting these groceries up," she said, gesturing to the three carts that stood in the kitchen. It was then I realized that we had stolen them. Considering the fact Szayel didn't pay the delivery man and convinced him he was on drugs, I'm not surprised Halibel had no problem stealing them. Nor am I surprised that I didn't notice. However, this lack of morals is somewhat worrisome. I must be more attentive to my actions; otherwise I will rot into another Grimmjow, or worse, Nnoitra.

"Make your bitches do it," Grimmjow suggested.

"Oh, are you referring to my _fraccion_?" Halibel prompted, raising her eyebrows.

"Yeah, them." Grimmjow said with a wave of his hand.

A long, heavy sigh escaped me. I could not keep my chagrin at bay at his disrespect toward others. Tia glanced at me, but I could not make a deduction about how she felt based on the cryptic look she gave me. At once, I retreated to my room, on the higher floors of...this place. My sanctuary was desecrated five minutes into my time of private relaxation when Grimmjow stepped foot in my room and demanded I 'hit up' the real world with him and Noitora.

I could not decline.

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Hm, so I don't know when I'll update again. Hopefully soon. Though, I'm definitely ending this story at chapter 5 or 6.

Bleach isn't very interesting anymore. I'm with Hetalia and Kuroshitsuji now.


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